


Charon (and Other Deadly Sins)

by magnificent



Series: Love and Other Deadly Sins [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Drinking, F/M, LW is a tsundere, POV Male Character, Sarcasm, Sexual Tension, sassy af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:58:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9272780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: Charon thinks he knows what's best for the Lone Wanderer. She decides to prove him wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

> yes, Charon is a deadly sin. I think that the numerous fanfictions on this website can attest to that.  
> Also, this one-shot is a personal favorite of mine. I hope you enjoy it!

 

 

 

_Click._

My fingertip snaps at the thumbwheel and a small flame burns brightly, flickering against the hot breeze. I bring the lighter to my face and snap it closed when the cigarette catches.

It's a quiet evening in Megaton, and we are preparing to go to Gob's saloon. I am ready, but Helena is bathing. If I were a man of lesser restraint, I might sit on our bed and watch her. But she is my employer and I am her protector. As irregular as a bond we might share, I must still perform my duty to the best of my ability. So I stand outside, smoking, and scan our surroundings. I do not expect any trouble, but the habit is hardwired into my brain.

When Helena did not think I was listening, she once confided to her prostitute friend that she thought I was like a pre-War machine, running ancient code, an obsolete relic stuck in a cycle of endless repetitions—I fight. I protect. I obey. I am unable to break my contract, even for her, and if my contract ever changed hands, I would be unable to protect her or view her as a priority.

I cannot refute this. I am aware of it myself. But my training was all-consuming, and there is not much of me left. There is little to establish me as _Charon,_ aside from a few minor traits: a gruff voice, my preference of shotguns, and a secret fondness for smoking. These things, as well as my libido, are the only things to prove I am still capable of calling myself a man and not a monster.

I grimace and light my second cigarette. My employer enjoys taking her time in the bathtub. I would wonder at what she does in there, amidst all the bubbles and steam, if I hadn't seen her myself—she merely relaxes and scrubs her soft, clean skin, every inch of it. I almost wish that I had not known so that I could occupy myself with imagining far more indecent things.

My smoke-filled breath snakes out into the air. If I could strip away these distracting, impure thoughts, I would do so. They are unnecessary to Helena, and they do not keep her safe. But a small part of me is pleased that she finds my body delightful, and I allow her to use me at any time.

If she had her way, she would want me to initiate romance as well. However, too much coddling and emotion will make her soft, and my employer must be strong and hardy if she is to withstand this world for any length of time, especially with the risks that she takes. I restrain myself, though I want to treasure my employer. It is for her own good.

The front door flies open, and I swear and stomp the cigarette, but it is too late.

“Hah!” my employer cackles. “What the fuck is this? You _smoke?_ Bull _shit._ I never want to hear you make a fuckin' _peep_ about my drinking.”

I stare at her silently, waiting for a command. I sigh inwardly, thinking about the lighter and the rest of the pack still in my pockets. I deserve this reaction. If I had not been lost in my own thoughts, I surely would have heard her coming downstairs, even though the walls.

“When did this start?” She smirks, challenging me. My employer enjoys testing my patience. For some reason, she finds it amusing.

“Pre-war habit,” I say. I do not remember much from before my training, but I do recall the first time I smoked after becoming a ghoul. My fingers still remembered the feel of the warm white paper, and the sensation of flipping open a lighter. I have kept the habit in the bleak hope that I might remember something more important, such as if I once had a family, or even if I had a favorite food or color.

Foolishness.

“It's disgusting,” Helena says. “Can't you even smell yourself?”

I do not reply. It is not the sort of question I would dignify with an answer.

She wrinkles her nose, looking disgusted, then adds, “Oh, shit, I forgot. You _can't._ Well, cut it out. The smell is sickening. Gonna give me a goddamn headache.”

I am silently disappointed. “If that is what you wish, then I will never do so again as long as you hold the contract.”

“What the fuck? You're saying that as if you think I'm going to lose it soon.”

I growl. “I would protect the contract with my life, as you asked. I simply find it more likely that you'll die out in the wastes rather than have it stolen out of that safe.”

My employer rolls her eyes and motions for me to follow. She does not take any note of my constant warnings, even though they are in earnest. I would like her to think more of her own safety. The smallest part of me, untouched by the prying hands of my first masters, is sorrowed by the thought of losing her. I want her, physically, it is true, but there is an edge to my awareness of dangers, and I am faster to react in her defense. I do not want her to come to harm, for my own selfish reasons. I am fond of her. It is unusual to be fond of employers.

“That's why I have you, right?” she asks, flicking her gaze to meet mine. She smiles, her eyes narrowing, an aura of sensual confidence hanging over her. Her irises are green, a bold and rare color in the wastelands. Her smile is teasing, daring, inviting me to drag her back to the house and fuck her until daybreak.

I avert my gaze. “I will protect you to the best of my ability, difficult as you may make it.”

“Good boy,” she whispers. “Now, come on. Gob's scotch won't wait forever.”

I have to suppress a frown as we enter the saloon. The most alarming aspect about my employer is her love of alcohol. She is a proud alcoholic and believes that it is some sort of symbol of merit and strength to be able to drink over a half-gallon of vodka without dying. It is idiocy at its finest, and most of the time I am forced to endure it.

“Hey, beautiful,” the prostitute calls across the room, and her eyes move between the two of us in appreciation. She is similar to Helena in the sense that she finds amusement in odd places, and enjoys making Helena nervous by making sexual comments about the two of us. It is enough to irk me as well, which is more dangerous, but the high tension only seems to encourage her.

The bartender smiles nervously when he sees us, and his gaze lingers on me. I glare in return. I dislike his cringing and ducking. He is a free man but still acts as a kicked dog, avoiding abuse. He is afraid of me.

My employer hugs the prostitute— _ex-prostitute,_ I correct myself. Since Moriarty's death at the hands of my mistress, the woman has taken to aiding Gob with the bar. I wonder that she does not leave to seek better quarters or employ, but she appears satisfied with her lot. However, it baffles me that a smoothskin would prefer to stay with a ghoul, much less be servile to one.

I glance down at Helena, half-listening to her chattering. It is far more unfathomable why Helena prefers my company as well, let alone have such a powerful and insatiable attraction to me. I will not argue, not anymore. I fear that even with all we have endured, that eventually she will grow tired of me and cease to pleasure herself with me, that she will find some other poor man to tease and torment. The thought makes my blood boil, but I would not blame her if she did.

Yet, if she does not, then... I can hardly bear to think of it. _It would mean that she has genuine feelings for me._ Feelings that I am barely capable of returning. I believe that she  _might_ this way, especially after the way that she held onto me after the throes of madness had left her, but I am not sure how I should feel about it.  _If_ I should have feelings about this at all. The fact that she might love me.

I hope that this is not the case, and if it is, I do not wish to know of it. It will only make our inevitable parting more difficult, whether it is because of a stolen contract or her selling it, or a last goodbye as she bleeds out in my arms. I have indeed lost employers in such a fashion.

To know that Helena would feel this way about me, and to be forced to watch her die...

_No._

“Who pissed _him_ off?” the woman asks, smiling.

My employer laughs and rests a hand on my arm. “Just his normal expression. He doesn't like it when I go drinking, do you, Chare?”

It's a direct question and therefore a required response.

“No,” I say.

Helena giggles and asks for a bottle of scotch from Gob. He complies with a smile, and my left hand tightens. I do not like the ghoul. I dislike the way he looks at my employer, with a soft and gentle expression, peaceful and pleased. He should not delight in her.

My employer raises her eyebrows, staring at me, and chugs the entire bottle in less than a minute. Again with the challenges. She is daring me to say something, to disapprove, so that she can launch back verbal abuse.

“What's that, Chare? You say something?” she demands.

“Did I speak?” I retort.

“You looked like you had something to say. I was just giving you the opportunity to voice it.”

“Very kind of you,” I say dryly.

Helena pouts, disappointed that I won't bite. She rolls her eyes and turns from me, as she does every evening in the bar, and allows my presence to fade from her attention. More or less dismissed, I am free to watch the rest of the usual patrons filter in—one of the Stahl brothers, that foul ex-raider that my mistress is so fond of, a female townsperson who I am unfamiliar with. I relax a little as the bar fills with noise. I am glad to have something to be able to protect her from. It irritates me to have to watch her with the prostitute and the ghoul, knowing that neither of them will give me the opportunity to defend her. They are not foolish enough to attempt any kind of violence upon her.

The raider, though... I lift my chin when he looks at me, acknowledging him. I am waiting for him to attack either one of us so that I might have an excuse to blow his brains out across the walls.

Helena's mutters catch my ear. I discretely glance over at her and the prostitute, who are whispering with their heads bent together. The ghoul is wiping down a glass and pretending that he cannot hear them either.

“...it's just that he's been so... _hands off._ You'd think that after almost losing me and going to so much effort to get me back, he'd be a little more... I don't know, eager? Loving?”

The prostitute clucks her tongue. “Then he's a dumbass.”

“Well, no shit.”

“You want advice, I guess?”

“Please. Goddamn, I never knew that having a lover would be so much fucking _work.”_

I hold back a small smile. I knew that Helena was growing frustrated with me, but I did not think that it would be to this extent that she would discuss her delicate personal matters with her friend. I am, admittedly, touched that she desires me so. Helena knows that all she must do is ask, and I am hers, for any length of time. But she still wants me to come to her?

“Hmm,” the prostitute says, “tricky. You're in an established relationship with your... _toy,_ but can't get what you want out of it. Just not filling those needs.”

“Nova, _gross!”_

I can't help but agree.

The relish is thick in her voice as she continues, “So you need to find a new way to work it. A... different _angle,_ if you will.”

“Oh my god.”

Nova is cackling now. “A deeper connection?”

My employer covers her face, ears red with humiliation. The bartender slides another bottle of scotch across the counter, the worst possible moment to do so, and she thanks him and downs a good quarter of it.

“Get to the point,” she says more loudly, forgetting to whisper.

The prostitute glances at me, shushing her, and I turn away just in time, pretending that I am still watching the crowd. “Okay, okay. Charon's an old-fashioned man, right? He's pre-War. He's probably used to classy ladies.”

“I'm not classy?” Helena asks, belching.

“You're tough as nails and classy when it matters,” Nova promises. “But not like he'd want, right?”

“I guess.”

“So... you have to try a different tactic. You're hitting a few points of attraction, you know? Strong, sexy, alert. But you're missing a whole side of the coin: being _cute.”_

“Cute?” Helena's voice is horrified.

Nova's silence is answer enough for her, because my employer continues, “I can't be _cute!_ I'm a fighter! I carry guns and make bad guys eat shit! The fuck do you expect me to do, start curling my hair or something?”

Nova says, “You could try shaving.”

“ _Hah.”_ End of that subject. I silently wish that Helena would listen to that one, because I do remember days, a long, long, time ago, when women were all pale and hairless, soft and unblemished.

But that was many years ago, and Helena is a product of her generation. No self-respecting traveler would ever think of doing something like that. It is time-consuming and vain. Still, I am irked to find that I grow hard at the thought of her white skin stripped clean, nothing but femininity and softness.

I growl under my breath and stare at Jericho to distract my libido. The rising storm in my pants dies the instant I lay eyes on him. He is enough to kill any thoughts of lust, from my perspective, but both the prostitute and even my employer seem to find something attractive about him.

So many things I do not understand.

“Okay, fine, it doesn't have to be that extreme,” Nova agrees. “But it's the little things. Show a little weakness around him now and then.”

Helena snorts. “What the fuck? What, you want me to trip over my own feet or something? Ooh, I can pretend to break an ankle on the way back home only to have Charon think I'm a goddamn idiot when he checks it to find out I was lying.”

I agree that I would be unimpressed by that method, although it would be... sort of cute, I suppose, for her to go to such lengths. It is unfortunate that I am brought to acknowledge Nova's expertise, but as a natural protector it would force me to worry over her and care for her.

“No, no, not like that. I mean _tempting_ cute things. Like asking him to help you with your armor. Oh, and start wearing his shirts to bed.”

“I have my own goddamn shirts,” my employer grunts.

“No, no, you don't understand. It's extremely cute. His huge shirt on you? He'll love it. That's an instant invitation to bed, in the cutest way possible.”

“Really?” Helena sounds doubtful.

“Honest. Do that enough, and you won't ever have to ask for him again.”

 

I am prepared tonight, though Helena does not know it. I hide my smiles from her, and I am warmed by the thought of what she might be planning. I intend to resist her, because it is for her own good, but the effort will not go unappreciated by me.

However, if she does end up shaving her legs... I lean back on the sofa, closing my eyes. It is a lovely thing to imagine. _Helena's strong, silky legs wrapping around my waist..._ It has been a couple of weeks since we have had sex, and the ache pressing against taut leather is enough to remind me. But I have gone for many years without, and I will be able to do so again. I am resolute not to approach her until her need is unbearable, and she is forced to ask it of me. I should do what I can to keep her from developing feelings for me. It is not suitable. Attachments to a creature such as myself, a living weapon, are dangerous.

I will protect her.

To my surprise, she goes to bed without saying a word to me. I sit on the sofa downstairs, stunned, and mildly disappointed. _Shit._ Less than mildly. I am angry, with her and with myself, for having been so worked up over this. My own lust is nothing that should bother her; I am her tool. I cannot be upset with her for something that I wasn't even supposed to hear. And yet I am angry to have been misled.

 _Could it be... that I truly want her to have feelings for me after all?_ I clamp down on the thought. Impossible. She is hot-blooded, running with a multitude of hormones and passions. I simply slake her thirst and satisfy her. I am a friend and a confidant, surely, but nothing else. I do not want her to love me. I _should not_ want her to love me.

“Chare?” I hear her call from the top of the stairs.

I leap up, grumbling to myself. _Don't even think about sleeping with her, while you're in this mood. It is only physical. You want her body. Nothing else. Do not assign impossible expectations to your employer, goddammit._

My woman is standing at the top of the stairs, dressed in only my largest shirt. The arms are longer than her own and cover her hands, making her strong frame appear fragile. Her legs are unshaven but pure white, with wide thighs, strong and thick with fat. They are pressed together uncertainly, and her green eyes are averted, uncharacteristic shyness.

“I... I'm cold,” she says. “Do you think that you could...?”

I grit my teeth as an instant hard-on jumps into place, almost painfully. _Damn Nova..._

“Go back to bed,” I say gruffly. “I'm coming.”

Her eyes light up and she skips back to her room happily. I am furious with myself for having to let her down, but I grab the blanket off of the back of the sofa and bring it up to her.

Helena is waiting in our bed, eyes large and bright. Her mouth is hidden beneath the blankets, and she is so young and sweet and hopeful for me that I nearly lose all resistance to her.

I spread the blanket over her, tucking in the sides and bottom.

“Better?” I ask.

Helena sighs. Her face is pink. “Yes,” she whispers.

 _It is for her own good,_ I growl to myself as I stalk from her room. _This is for her own good._

 

Unfortunately, Helena is not discouraged. She is maddeningly tenacious, becoming coy and reserved. Her swearing slows down so much that I almost miss it. In the afternoons before going to the bar, she sits beside me carefully, as if asking permission, and reads.

I am astounded. She professed to have a love of reading but I have never seen her done so until now. Her typical relaxation is to get drunk and jeer at me until she falls asleep.

And that damn shirt. I keep my clothes downstairs on a shelf and though I have begun hiding them beneath my spare set of armor, underwear, anything, she finds a new one to wear each night, swapping them out so that it's always a surprise. The tightest-fitting one was short enough that the hem rested on her hips, showing the tiniest amount of her panties as she teased me from the top of the stairs. The sight of that black lace and red cotton was nearly enough to break my resolve.

I am glad that she does not insist we travel this week. She is distracted, as am I, and it would be dangerous for us to venture into the wastelands with no apparent destination, as we often do.

Three days after my trials began, she walks downstairs in a white pre-War sundress. Her shoulders are bare, showing pale skin and untoned muscle. She is the very image of a pre-War advertisement, a soft young woman with enough fat to round out her body.

My jaw works as I say, “What is that?”

“A dress,” she replies sweetly. “Why? You want one too?”

Even with this much effort, and she can't resist goading me.

“I mean, I am allowed to determine what you wear, right?” she asks eagerly. I cross my arms. Apparently she has been holding in her comments for far too long, because she continues, “Betcha I can find one in your size. What do you think your color is? Yellow?”

She considers me, looking for a reaction. “No, I think it'll draw out too much of the red in your complexion. Blue. Nothing too fancy. You could be some nasty hulking bitch, wouldn't draw any suspicions there. Most ghouls look pretty sexless, you could make a decent lady, long as you don't speak.”

“I regret to inform you that I am allowed to deny any non-combat-related orders,” I say shortly. “Especially suggestions similar to those.”

Helena shrugs. “Too bad.”

Then she looks down at herself, as if belatedly remembering her current missive.

I say, “This does not seem suitable for combat.”

“It's not for combat, dumbass,” she snaps. “I'm wearing it today so that I can show Nova.”

“Why?”

“My birthday is tomorrow,” she mumbles, picking at the lace on the hem of her skirt. “The dumb fucking townspeople want to have a party for me.”

Now _this_ is news. “I was not aware of this.”

“Nova told me last night. She said it was supposed to be a surprise, it's something that Lucas Simms decided to organize, but she thought I'd want to know so that I can show up looking extra nice.” She frowns. “Don't think that this is quite my style, though.”

“No,” I say, being honest. My mistress is beautiful and strong in her armor, hands fixed on her M1 Garand, with blood streaked across her face. In her leathers, her large shoulders are accentuated, showing off her powerful figure.

“What do you know about fashion, you goddamn shuffler?” she snaps.

“Is that indignation?” I ask. “I did not know I was supposed to disagree with you.”

“Ugh!” She rolls her eyes and tears off the dress right in front of me. I curse my own arousal even as I stare, hungrily. She is wearing nothing but stockings and underwear, now that she has kicked off her high-heeled boots. “Fine, just... stay put. I'll come up with something new for tomorrow. Got enough shit in here, I should be able to pull an outfit together.”

I grit my teeth. I was expecting relief for the throbbing heat in my loins when she undressed, but it seems like she isn't even paying attention to me. For once, it... it wasn't a come-on? My employer is digging around in the corners, sorting out empty bottles and plastic snack cake wrappings from wrinkled clothes and loose ammo.

“Charon, you ever see a skirt in here? I was thinking that I'd picked one up at some point.”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak, and she takes my silence as a 'no'. “Fuck. Might have sold it.”

My mistress is kneeling on the floor with her wide ass in the air, practically begging to be grabbed or slapped or penetrated or _something._ She has to know what this is doing to me. She... she's stopping with the 'cute' tactics and is just going for the blunt approach, as usual-

“Aha!” My employer stands up quickly, holding out a long black skirt. “See?”

She steps into it and I hold in a groan as her curves are swallowed up and swathed in fabric. “Not as cute, but not dangerous or mean-lookin', right? Wrinkled as fuck but what are ya gonna do.”

Rhetorical question. I am glad to not have to answer.

My employer shrugs into a leather jacket that she zips up without putting anything on underneath. “This looks bar-friendly, huh?”

“I imagine that it would be suitable,” I say. _Damn._ This erection does not seem as if it going to leave me any time soon. I see Helena's eyes take notice of it, the tiny smile that flashes across her face. I stand stock-still, waiting for her to take advantage of the situation. She walks closer and my heartbeat thunders in my ears. Dammit. I did not want nor expect my need for her to be this strong. After so long without sleeping with her, I believed that _she_ would be the one in need, not myself.

“You still want to go to the bar?” she purrs.

No, I do not. I do not even want to wait as long as carrying her upstairs. I want to take her right on the sofa, to tear off those clothes she just put on. But I remind myself that it is best if she does not have feelings for me, that it is solely a platonic relationship with a physical aspect. And part of keeping things right between us is to not initiate anything, as I had done for the entire length of our relationship. I had wanted her as well, as long as she wanted me, perhaps longer. No ghoul would look at a smoothskin woman and not be attracted. But I stuck to my morals and did not take advantage of her while she was drunk, did not ever make any sort of insinuation, did my best to control my ravenous sexual appetite. Though I know she is willing and pleased by me, I must protect her.

 

And that is why, in about fifteen minutes, I find myself in a foul temper and sitting beside my mistress in Gob's saloon. Miraculously, she has managed to smooth most of the wrinkles and stains out of the skirt and has put a long overcoat over top of the ensemble so that the surprise of a feminine outfit is not spoiled for the rest of the town. She allows Nova a peek, who shakes her head.

“Honey. White stockings with that jacket?”

“Ugh,” my employer says. “I knew you'd say something.”

“Maybe if the skirt was brown, too...”

“You have beige ones I can borrow?”

“Oh, do I ever.” Nova pauses. “You know, since quitting being a whore, I didn't think I'd have a use for these clothes anymore, but it seems like it's still the right outfit for this job. I'm just glad I can keep getting wear out of 'em.”

Helena agrees. “And hey, you're only young once, right?”

The ex-prostitute glances at the bartender. “Gob, you've got the bar under control?”

“Leave it to me,” he says cheerfully.

“Alright, I'll only be gone a moment,” Nova says, and darts upstairs.

My employer looks at the bartender. “I think I'll go for vodka and schnapps this time,” she says. Gob raises his eyebrows at this but complies.

“Not a drink I remember making for you before,” he remarks as he mixes it. “Isn't this... a little too girly for you?”

She grins. “Just trying out being... _cute.”_

“Well, then,” Gob says, “I'll have to go all out for you.”

Helena giggles, and my hands fist in my lap. Neither of them seem to notice my anger, and he proceeds to make an elaborate show of rimming the cocktail glass in a thick crust of white sugar. He mixes schnapps and vodka and a creamy liquid from an unlabeled canister.

I stop her hand before she takes a sip, glaring at the bartender. “What was that?”

“Hm?” He remembers my presence and his easy-going smile fades. He looks afraid again. Good.

“What was the last thing you put into her drink?” I growl.

“Pear juice,” he answers nervously, looking to my employer for direction.

Helena smirks, taking a long gulp and smacking her lips. “Juice, you dumb fuck, did you think he was going to roofie me?”

My skin itches at the thought. I hold in a snarl. I realize that I am maybe being overprotective, given the situation. No man would dare harm my mistress in front of my eyes, especially a pathetic, weak-spined excuse for a male like this bartender.

Gob appears to be alarmed. “Don't say such a horrible thing!”

“It was a joke.”

“Yeah, real funny. It quits being so hilarious when you start seeing it happen on the regular.”

Helena chokes. “The fuck? Are you serious?”

“Mm.”

“When?” There is a steely look in my mistress's eye, and for a brief moment I am proud of her.

Gob waves a hand. “Years ago, fortunately. No one local, and it was before I could do anything about it, of course, but at least Moriarty had the decency to try to keep it from happening.”

She relaxes. “That's good. Listen, if you ever see something like that happen again, I'll fix it.”

There is a grim certainty to her words. I do not doubt her. The woman is already hard enough on male genitalia (as I am well aware), and I cannot imagine what she might do with a man she hated.

Nova returns to her seat with a pair of thin beige stockings and a lace garter belt.

Gob turns pink. _Pervert,_ I snarl silently. “Nova, uhm, right out in public?”

She shrugs. “Most of the town has seen 'em anyway.”

I am seething at the thought of Helena wearing something so indecent in public, just beneath that skirt. Any gust of wind strong enough to lift her skirt would leave her bare for the world to see, with those tiny silken straps holding the stocking onto her lovely thighs... All of this lace and silk and sheer, soft fabric is enough to drive a man insane.

“Helena!” Nova chides. My mistress is licking the sugar off the glass, a little guiltily now that she has been caught. “Really?”

“It tastes good,” she whines, but sets the empty glass down and allows Gob to refill it.

“As if you don't get enough sugar with those goddamn Fancy Lad Snack Cakes,” Nova says, poking my employer's belly to make a point.

My employer slaps the woman's hand away, and my fingers are wrapped around the hilt of my knife before I even finish registering the action.

Helena does not notice, but I feel the bartender's eyes on me. _Foolish._ Though Moriarty is gone, I must be careful to not rouse ire because of my actions. I know that Jericho, at least, will be scrutinizing my actions to try to find something to rile the townspeople with.

“That'll be the last one,” she says when she reaches her fourth drink. “I don't want to be hungover tomorrow.”

“Good thinking,” Nova agrees. “I'm not sure what everyone has planned, but I know that Maggie is really excited. She's been working on something ever since she found out that you were turning twenty.”

Helena sighs. “I wish that kid had a better role model.”

“As far as she knows, you are,” Nova says firmly. “You know this bar—what people say in here stays in here. No regulars are about to gossip about how much you drink or cuss or try to sleep with nasty old men-”

My internal alert is raised again, and I must have visibly reacted, because Nova turns to me and says, “Oh, sorry, didn't mean to bring anything up-”

I interrupt. “Helena, what is she talking about?”

She presses a hand over her eyes, clearly embarrassed. Nova is cringing—apparently this is something that they did not mean to bring up in front of me, which makes it all the more necessary for me to know. “Uhm... well... do you really have to ask?”

I wait.

“Ugh, fine... I may or may not have had a few incidents with Jericho...”

 _I fucking knew it._ I'm on my feet before I can think. I _knew_ there was some sort of reason why my mistress is fond of him. So they have some sort of previous relationship? _Why?_ Even by my own low standards, I do not believe that many people would find him attractive. He is callous and balding, foul-mouthed and a _drunkard-_

Ah. So _that's_ what it is.

“Calm down, Chare,” my employer says, hooking an arm around my own. “Sit back down, he isn't even looking at us.”

She looks tired and resigned. Why? Why did she not want me to find out? Could it be that there is still something between them?

She was a virgin when we first had sex, the frightened and innocent look on her face as I pressed into her enough to convince any fool, even myself. But it does not mean that she may have given him favors or had any performed upon herself.

_It could even be that they have slept together while Helena and I have known each other._

My hands clench again. Maddening. My mistress is her own woman. Whatever use she makes of me is at her discretion, and she is always free to pursue whatever catches her fancy. My feelings do not matter—in fact, I should not _have_ feelings. Of all things, why is it that my conditioning stripped away feelings such as love and pity and compassion, yet did little for ones such as jealousy and possessiveness?

 _Maddening,_ I growl to myself again, and listen to my mistress drink.

 

I aim to stay out of my employer's way as she gets ready for bed, and if there is a god, I pray that Helena does not tempt me again.

She does not pay me much attention, humming as she stuffs a snack cake into her mouth as her bedtime treat. A tiny smear of icing sticks at the corner of her mouth, and thankfully she wipes it away before I lose my composure and lick it off myself.

“Good night, Charon.”

“Rest well,” I say.

The night passes by with excruciating slowness. The thought of my beautiful mistress upstairs in bed has never been so tempting.

I spend my time working over my shotgun, taking it apart piece by piece and cleaning it until it shines. Once that begins to lose its appeal, I pick through Helena's books. Most of them are entirely random, anything in good enough shape to satisfy her. Random volumes out of different sets of encyclopedias, erotic romance novels, medical dictionaries. However, she does have a few books older than myself, which I find soothing to read. Living in this eternally-changing world for as long as I have, I feel a certain affinity towards anything over two hundred years old.

Before it is light out, I dutifully lay down on the sofa, flat on my back, and close my eyes. Helena ordered me to do this for an hour every single night, and since it helps keep me in better shape, I am bound to obey her. I do not believe that she knows that I still do this.

I am surprised, sometimes, that my employer does not order me about more. If she pressed certain things, I would be bound to obey her. If she desired, she could control my life from the moment the sun rose until long after it set. But she does not. I would like to think the best of her, but I think that it is perhaps just because she would become bored with me if I always obeyed her.

I lose track of time as I lay there thinking, and at long last I hear my employer's bare feet padding down the stairs in the late morning. Her footsteps pause, and then she skips to my side. I hear a muffled snicker—I sigh inwardly and catch her wrist as she reaches to do god-knows-what to my face.

“Jesus _fuck_ you scared me!” she yelps.

I open my eyes. “What were you doing?”

“I wanted to see if you were awake!”

“I do not sleep,” I remind her.

“You looked like you were sleeping,” she pouts. I release her wrist and she pulls back, rubbing it. “Jesus, you're in a mood this morning. Someone piss in your coffee?”

I ignore the comment. “Today is your birthday.”

She brightens. “Yup! I'm finally twenty! Goddamn. I feel like I'm way older than that.” Helena shoves my legs out of the way and sits at the far end of the sofa. “Oh, and _hah._ All your nasty comments about me having an early death? Well, I've made it out of my teenage years, so you can go _suck my dick.”_

I grimace. That phrase coupled with the obscene gesture is enough to make me think twice about giving into my temptations. “I was not aware that you had one.”

“Really? Probably hidden by my two-ton balls.” She smirks, as if that's one of the most clever things she's ever said.

I say, “Are you sure you are not drunk?”

“What? Fuck. Is it obvious? Although, I'm buzzed, I'm not drunk,” she chatters happily. “Start out the day with a bottle of 80-proof, makes for a good birthday.”

“I thought that you were going to try to remain sober so that you could be a 'good role model',” I mimic, thinking about poor Maggie Creel. If the girl truly does not know this side of my employer, then she will have quite the let-down. I do not hate my employer at all, but I very much dislike _this._

“I can control myself,” she protests. “It's all about your _vibes._ If you've got bad vibes, then you're going to be a nasty drunk. And vibes are... they're like a communicable disease, you know? Gaja has good vibes, so when I get drunk with her I'm really happy.”

I frown. “And I suppose I carry a 'vibe' that makes you irritable with me?”

“Poor Chare,” my employer coos, and sits down on my lap. “Are you feeling sad about something?”

“I appreciate your concern,” I say, “but the patronizing tone isn't necessary.”

Her hand strokes my face, and then she lays her head on my chest. More softly, she says, “You've been in a really bad mood lately. Don't tell me I've been doing something to make you mad?”

I sigh. I contemplate touching her hair, or pulling her close, but I fear that it would only encourage her, or make her think that I was capable of feeling things that I am not certain I ever will feel again. “No, Helena. I apologize if I've done anything to make you think that I was upset with you.”

“Then why do you look so angry all the time?”

I do not have an answer for this. “We should get going,” I say. “After all, there's that party waiting-”

“I'm not going,” Helena insists, “until you tell me what's going on with you.”

I sigh heavily. “It is nothing to concern my employer with.”

“Is that so?” Her arms twine around my neck. “If that's what you think, then obviously I haven't been taking proper care of my Charon.”

I stroke her arm, unable to stop myself. _Hers._ Such a complicated word, so filled with affection and possession. I can hardly tell if she amuses herself with me because she enjoys the control, or if it is something more genuine.

“It is not necessary to care for me,” I say, gently. “It is my duty to protect you.”

“Is that why you've stopped coming to bed with me?”

My heart jolts at the question. Blunt as ever, my mistress cuts to the heart of the matter.

“I miss you,” she says, and looks up at me with those beautiful green eyes.

It is the last straw of an already-toppling load. I growl and lift her into my arms. She giggles, nestling in closer. I curse the stairs as I ascend—my employer is heavier than most women, ungainly, and if they cause me to drop her, I am going to level the house.

My fingers are eager, but unlike the first time we had intercourse, I refrain from tearing her clothing. I am also surprised to find myself doing the majority of the work; I am rarely on top. Helena only lays back, her legs splayed apart and waiting for me.

I slip off her garter belt and stockings and shudder. Her legs are shaven, beautiful and soft. I let out a soft groan and lick the inside of her thigh, nipping right where her leg joins with her abdomen. My employer squeals and I silently thrill with pride to have caused such a noise to come out of her.

I remove my own pants, not bothering with my shirt—would waste too much time. My need is powerful, and my attention is solely fixed on sating myself. As I thrust in and out of her, watching her face and listening to our small gasps of desire, I feel something fierce kindling in my chest.

I might belong to her—but she is mine.

 

I lay beside my employer, still breathing hard from my climax, feeling vaguely ashamed. Rough and too fast to be enjoyable for her.

“Charon,” she says. “I have to admit something.”

I take a deep breath. Knowing her, it could be anything. “Alright?”

“I've been trying to seduce you for the past week.”

A rare laugh forces itself out. “I know,” I say, still chuckling. “I heard your conversation in the bar.”

“You bastard!” Helena cries, and punches me in the chest.

I allow the hit to land, even though every instinct screams at me to break her wrist. “You're not as quiet as you think when you're drunk,” I say.

“Dammit! So you knew and you were fighting me all this time! Ugh!”

I say, “Helena... I... are you certain that this is still what you want?”

She's quiet for a little. “What, you mean... us? Being together?”

“Mm.”

“You have a problem with it?”

“I worry that having this sort of relationship with me might compromise the contract,” I admit.

“You and that damned fucking contract! I swear, you love that thing more than you love me!” There is more than a little venom in her tone.

Startled, I say, “I meant that I may not be able to protect you as well, and that you may begin to overvalue my own safety...”

I pause. What did she say? _I swear, you love that thing more than you love me!_ I... I love her? No. I am not able to love anyone, not with as long as I have lived, the things I have seen, the things I have done.

“Overvalue your safety?” Helena scoffs. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Growling, she stands up and wipes herself off with the sheets. I make a face as she tosses them at me—disgusting. She pulls her stockings back on and is clipping them onto the garter belt when she adds, “Dumb fucking ghoul.”

She still looks angry.

I stare at her, then smile, watching her storm out of the room. Perhaps... perhaps, given our dysfunctional relationship in this broken world, _love_ is harder to qualify. I do not even know if it is something that is often said anymore. But I realize now, that for my mistress, _dumb fucking ghoul_ is the closest thing to an _I love you_ as I'm going to get. At least for now.

And perhaps for myself, love may not be all chivalry and kindness. It might be something like the burning in my chest when I think of her with Jericho, the lengths I strive for in order to protect her. The way she pisses me off one moment and soothes me the next.

I dress and follow her, and as she's still growling and pacing around our home, I fold my arms around her and feel her warmth. She huffs and I murmur, “Well, you did a very good job at seducing me. Very cute.”

“Damn right, I am!” she says instantly. “A-and, thank you for my birthday present. I was hoping I'd get you today.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Not exactly the best I've given you.”

“I just wanted to be with you,” she says quietly, and it is such a sweet and innocent thing to say that for the first time I can feel the span of the years between us, this vast distance, and I am sad for her, and for myself, because she is not a ghoul, and one day we will no longer be together.

Then she breaks away from my grasp, hiding the red in her face that she doesn't think that I notice, and snaps, “Dumbass!”

I laugh and follow her, down the steep pathway to the nuke in the center of the town, where the people of Megaton wait with their presents and food: slow-roasted Brahmin, mutfruit juice, champagne, rolls with honey. Maggie Creel races forward to meet my mistress at the base of the hill and presses a hand-made copper hair clip into her hands, and I help her place it into her hair, where it shines, almost as brightly as Helena herself.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, now you know why Charon had a lighter at the end of the last section... Personally, I can't stand smoking, but it suits him so freaking much. Don't smoke, though. It's a deadly sin.
> 
> And you know what else is a deadly sin? Reorganizing your fanfiction series all the fucking time.
> 
> So I was thinking about the order of everything, and I decided to change the schedule: this Thursday will be about the Greek mythology Charon, and after that will be a two-chapter short about Charon's prior master. Then y'all will have your fic about Charon's angst during MaODS; then there'll be the other POV switch for the next one-shot. And THEN, finally, you'll get Power and Other Deadly Sins. And then the epilogue.  
> I decided to rearrange it both for the epilogue and just to keep up continuity. I very much liked the flow from Madness to Charon to the next one-shot to Power, but I'm alright with screwing it up if I can leave the epilogue alone. I NEED it to be the very last piece to this series. For... reasons. I feel very strongly about the ending and I don't want it to lose its sense of purpose and finality. I want you guys to reach the ending and either have a strong desire to read the entire series again, or play Fallout 3. Or, if you're artistically-inclined, draw sexy fan-art of him.
> 
> (Please, do the latter, we need more. I can write out the wazoo, but I can't draw to save my life.)
> 
> See you on Thursday! :)


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